


As The Sparrow

by hubrisandwax



Series: of bullets and birds [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: 1940s LA, 1947, Alternate Universe - 1940s, Blow Jobs, Bottom Dean, Canon-Typical Violence, Cas is a BAMF, Dean is a cop, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge 2013, Film Noir, Gangsters, M/M, Past minor character death, Post-World War II, ex soldier castiel, ex-soldier dean winchester, implied PTSD, minibang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-08
Updated: 2013-11-08
Packaged: 2017-12-31 20:08:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1035865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hubrisandwax/pseuds/hubrisandwax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s 1947. Dean is an ex-marine fighting crime and a very different sort of war to the one he faced in the Pacific as a detective on the streets of LA. This city isn’t all the glitz and glamor it’s made out to be, however, and Dean finds himself tugged in to a world of life-threatening unknowns when Daphne Novak’s body is discovered. Castiel Novak, her husband, was one of Dean’s battalion mates in the war, and he's just as deadly and dangerous as he was two years ago when he saved Dean’s life during the Battle of Okinawa. Except now he’s wanted for his wife’s murder, and Dean just doesn’t believe Cas is capable of that.</p><p>Is Cas really who he says he is, though? And what will Dean have to sacrifice in order to repay the debt he feels he owes?</p>
            </blockquote>





	As The Sparrow

**Author's Note:**

> hello hello everyone!!
> 
> this fic has been my baby for a few months now, between university assignments and travel (part of this fic was written in Vietnam), and i've had a lot of fun with it! it was inspired (in part) by the game LA Noire, but isn't an LA Noire AU. it was written as a DCMB for the [Dean/Cas bigbang ](http://deancasbigbang.livejournal.com/)challenge on livejournal.
> 
> first and foremost, i'd like to thank [doseymedia](http://blog.tmorganart.com), who did the absolutely phenomenal illustrations for this fic. they can be found [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1034053). holy shit they're so incredible i'm in absolute awe. you have to check them out.
> 
> second, i have to thank my alphas, Honey (my bffl who doesn't even watch the show //frowns loudly at u but loves u anyway) and [Jo](http://www.sherryandgin.tumblr.com) (who is just really gross ew especially her art i can't), who held my hand the entire way through and didn't even complain once (which is a feat, considering this fic changed from a canon-divergent epic to... a cop AU really, hahaha). i also couldn't have written this without the beta-ing support of [Wish](http://www.inthebackoftheimpala.tumblr.com) and [Emily](http://thesoundmachine.tumblr.com/), who totally saved my arse. a big shoutout to all my tumblr followers and friends, as well, who made this experience infinitely more enjoyable!!!!! this fic wouldn't be here without u guise.
> 
> i'm not a historian, and thus because this fic is set in the 1940s, there's likely to be some inaccuracies. i've tried my best, but please let me know if anything in particular glares out at you and i'll fix it immediately. granted, i have taken a few liberties in certain regards, but this _is_ post-war1940s LA, so...  
>  also, whilst i don't like to write about mental illnesses i have no personal experience with, Dean has implied PTSD. it's never mentioned in the fic directly, but there are flashbacks and nightmares. if i've made any errors regarding this, i'll change that immediately, as well. just let me know; my intention isn't to misrepresent anyone!
> 
> there are some extra warnings. Dean and Cas are both married for historical accuracy purposes, but are not in actual relationships with the people they're married to (so no cheating occurs)(that's not a spoiler). there's some era-typical discussions of homophobia, and Dean talks about his experience as a soldier in a pretty in-depth way. i'll add a few additional notes at the end, but for now, i hope you enjoy it!!! 
> 
> i can be found on tumblr [here](hubrisandwax.tumblr.com). title is taken from the Charles Bukowski poem of the same name.

> “I was as hollow and empty as the spaces between stars.” 

― Raymond Chandler,  _The Long Goodbye_

 

You ain’t able to trust no-one in this town of Angels. From what he’s seen on the streets of LA, Dean often thinks that Los Demonios would be a better name. 

Los Angeles is the city of surface glitz and glamor; the place people come when they want to make it big: girls travelling west to the Big Smoke, hoping to score that big Hollywood break; gangsters moving turf from Chicago to ‘unoccupied’ territory; GIs settling with their families in redeveloped suburbs after the war. It’s 1947 and LA is a macabre pantomime of gang warfare, corruption, and crime that plays to the tune of bebop and gunfire. For a post-war veteran trying to assimilate back in to civilian life, a career as a cop is a bit like being back at the warfront, except it’s a concrete jungle, and instead of being shot at by Japs, the men behind the triggers are an assortment of Mexican and North American crims fighting a much less glorified battle. Dean tries to find the parallels, because without them he’s just an honorable discharge trying to reestablish his place in suburbia. His osense of identity was shattered the day he left for the Pacific.

It’s a Friday morning sometime in late September when the case crosses Dean’s desk. The dry desert winds have started curling in from Santa Ana as the days shrink away from summer, and it’s been a pretty slow couple of months in Homicide, truth be told; the hunt for the ‘Werewolf’ killer reached a stalemate in June as the media’s attention trickled away from Elizabeth Short and her legacy as the Black Dahlia, and there have been no leads on the Jeannie French’s murderer - or, as they’ve come to be known, the Lipstick Killer. Gang-related crimes are on the up and up, of course, particularly after Bugsy Siegel’s death, but all that’s mostly Vice’s kettle of fish. So when Benny approaches Dean’s desk and tells him that they’re required in the captain’s office, Dean’s pretty damn edgy. Even a domestic homicide beats patrol.

“D’you know what we’ve got?” he asks his partner as they wait outside Captain Singer’s door. Benny shrugs.

“Naw,” he says, his Southern drawl thick like it always was in the morning before he’d had his second cigarette and third coffee of the day. Dean’s worked with him long enough now to know his habits. “Likely the usual situation, though. You know - good old GI Joe with all that anger but no out, bit of a souse-”

“-Who takes a gun to his wife’s head when she steps outta line. Yeah, I know the drill,” Dean mutters. “We can hope it’s a lead, though. Could be another letter from the Werewolf Killer, like we got a few months back.”

Benny chuckles. “Always keen to save lives, eh? You should’ve stayed in Vice.”

“Yeah, but catching dope fiends isn’t half as ace as being a detective. I feel badass, like I’m The Batman - an unsung hero, fighting my way through serial killers and murderers on the streets of LA.”

“You’re a real knucklehead, you know that? Fuckin’ delusions of grandeur and all that jazz,” Benny says affectionately. “If you want mystery, go join the Alien Squad.” Dean grins back. He’s really goddamn pleased at the rapport that he and Benny’ve developed over the last few months that Dean’s been working Homicide. Beats the shit he had to deal with on tours with the uniformed beat cops, when his partner was rumoured to be in cahoots with Mickey Cohen and Lucifer and his gang of lowlife ‘demons’. He could’ve sworn Uriel was actively _trying_ to get him killed half the time. Benny’s an honest cop, though, and it’s fucking rare to find one of those these days, so Dean ain’t gonna look the gift horse in the mouth, so to speak. He and Benny mind their own business and try to avoid the backhanded dealings he knows go on between these four walls and so far, they’ve had it pretty easy.

“Hey, idjits.” A gruff voice filters through the door in front of them. “Stop bloody goofin’ off and get in here already. I ain’t got all day.”

Dean and Benny push through to see Bobby sitting at his desk, surrounded by papers and looking mighty flustered. Benny stands to attention like the good ex-soldier he is whilst Dean sprawls across one of the wooden chairs that are scattered around the room, resting his elbows on his knees and leaning forward

“What’ve we got, Bobby?” Dean begins, looking eagerly across at the Captain. “Give us the straight dope. Tell me it’s something big.”

Bobby sighs irritably. “You’ve got way too much enthusiasm for me, boy,” he says, pulling out a page from the stack on his desk. “Looks like we might have another domestic murder. A body was called in not ten minutes ago. Female, late twenties, found in an empty housing lot up on Turner Street. Reporting officer was Fitzgerald. I need you to go do your thing up there, all right? High Brass have already been bangin’ on about keeping this on the down low, ‘cause we don’t need more media snoopin’ and trying to rile the public up any more than they already have been, so try and be subtle about it. God knows I don’t need Michael or Zachariah breathing down my neck.”

Dean shifts in his chair. “Could it be-”

“It’s definitely not the Werewolf, no. We’ve had bubkis since that letter and the potential leads with Jeannie French that turned to zip, so don’t even start, Winchester.”

“What about gang-related?” Benny asks.

“It’s a domestic,” Bobby says firmly, voice gruff, “plain and simple, so treat it as one. Got it? Or do you need it in writin’, too?”

 

Dean hates dead bodies. It doesn’t matter how many he sees, they still make him feel uncomfortable.

A group of officers have made a perimeter around the corpse. Barriers prevent the press - and curious citizens - from getting too close. They’re yelling inflammatory questions and statements, as per usual, but Dean ignores them as he and Benny flash their badges and push through the throng.

“You were the reporting officer on this, right, Garth?” Dean says, approaching the uniformed cop standing closest to the corpse. Garth’s a good guy. They even pulled a couple of collars together when Dean was still on the beat, back before he began plain clothes tours, and Dean’s surprised Garth hasn’t managed to work his way further up the hierarchy.

“Yes, Detective Winchester,” Garth says nervously. He pulls his hat off his head and begins to fiddle with the black band.

“Dean, please,” Dean says, offering a pained half-smile. “We’re friends.”

“Of course,” Garth says, but after a beat he grins back. “Got radioed over because of a disturbance called in by a neighbor. Said she was out walkin’ her dog when she saw the body lying in the grass on the empty lot. The Coroner’s on his way. We haven’t touched the body yet - leavin’ that up to you, Detective.”

“Good work. Did the woman who found the body say much else?” Dean asks.

“No,” Garth says. “She lives somewhere up the street, though. I can call in for an address, if you like.”

“That’d be great.”

“Thank you,” Benny says, tipping his fedora in Garth’s direction. “Guess we better give her a look, brother.”

“Yeah,” Dean mumbles, suddenly reluctant. He steps forward and leans over the body.

Just as Garth said, judging by her clothes and the lack of lines on her face, she’s probably about twenty-seven or twenty-eight. There are no visible marks on her body, save for the grisly line across the column of her throat. She has light brown hair - a similar colour to Dean’s - that fans out behind her head in a sort of golden halo, and blank, green eyes that stare unseeingly at the sky. A gold wedding band sits on her left hand. Ligature marks ring her wrists, suggesting that she’s been tied up, barely visible due to pastel-pink sleeves. Dean reaches inside her blazer pocket to find a plain brown wallet, a set of keys, and some folded papers.

“I think I got a name,” he says, flipping open the wallet and pulling out her license.

Oh, fuck.

He stares at the printed script, blinking a couple of times, hoping that his vision is just screwing up. It’s definitely not. The little black letters glare up at him tauntingly, and he feels a bit like he’s just been sucker-punched in the gut.

“Yeah?” Benny prompts.

“Uh,” Dean starts. The words just won’t come, though; they congeal in his throat, making it hard for him to breath, and he tries to swallow and clear his throat. “Daphne,” he manages. “Daphne Novak.”

Benny doesn’t say anything. Dean stops staring at her picture - _Daphne Novak’s_ picture - and instead glances up at his partner. Benny raises his eyebrows. “You know her?”

“Um, not exactly,” Dean says. “I know _of_ her. Her husband was a medic in the war. We fought together at Okinawa.”

Benny looks surprised - Dean never talks about the war. Benny himself fought in France, half a world away from Dean’s personal hell in the Pacific, and whilst Benny’s happy to regale anyone who listens with tales of his battalion's heroism against the Germans, Dean prefers to pretend that those two years he spent overseas never happened.

“You sure?”

“Uh, yeah. I mean, I think so. The dude’s name was Novak, and there can’t be too many Novaks in LA.”

“We’ll run a background check. What’s his given name?”

“Cas,” Dean responds, on impulse. “Or rather, Castiel.”

“Huh,” Benny says thoughtfully. “Funny name.”

Dean shrugs. “An angel, apparently.” He pauses and regards the body again. “He’s not... a killer though.”

Benny snorts. “He fought in the fuckin’ war. We’re all killers.”

Dean shakes his head. “Not like this.” He’s struggling to reconcile the image of the man he knew – tall; bronzed skin; a shock of dark hair that never lay flat, no matter how much brylcreem and comb Cas squeezed in to it - with the sort of person who would slash his own wife’s throat. He can’t. “Unless there was good reason,” he concedes, looking away at the perfect, American, wet dream houses that line the block. It’s like a fucking scene from _It’s a Wonderful Life_ , perfect pillar-box houses in perfect rows with perfect manicured lawns. Except the coroner’s pulling up and there’s a dead body at his feet and one of the few people he respected during the war might be guilty of first-degree murder.

Perhaps _It’s A Wonderful Life_ meets _The Blue Dahlia_.

Benny gets it, at least.

“Well, there ain’t anythin’ we can do yet, except wait for the coroner and get Novak’s address. Won’t know nothing ‘til then.”

Dean nods, a muscle flexing in his jaw. “Yeah. I’ll find the nearest police box and call Records and ID so the coroner can check the body.”

He tries to school his face in to something neutral as he walks away from the scene. Cas definitely isn’t guilty - Dean knows this like he knows all the words to _The Batman_ and that his brother’s favourite food is salad and that Lisa snores when she’s had more than a fifth of a bottle of Cutty Sark in the evenings - but that won’t necessarily make it any easier for Dean to prove that Cas is innocent; Cas better have a damn good alibi.

If Dean were a good cop, he’d tell Bobby that he should be reassigned to something less personal, but Dean feels like he needs to be on this case. He needs to prove that Cas is innocent.

Because Castiel didn’t just fight with Dean in Okinawa - he saved Dean’s life. And that’s not something Dean’s likely to forget in a hurry.

 

Dean finds a call box a couple of blocks away and dials through to Central. He manages to get confirmation on the marriage – which, yeah, Dean doesn’t want to think about too hard right now - and writes down a couple of addresses on his police-issued notepad. Cas apparently works at the Los Angeles County Hospital as a trauma surgeon, which isn’t surprising. His residential address is listed about three streets over in one of those pre-war suburbs filled with houses built before World War One. No children. Dean sighs in relief at that, because kids just complicate matters. He understands that all too well.

Dean’s not ready to head back to the corpse and those dead green eyes that remind him so eerily of his own, so he decides to check if Cas is home. Or rather, Novak. This is a case now, and Dean can’t be getting too personal, no matter how much history they’ve shared. Novak is a potential suspect now, or perhaps – best-case scenario - even a witness. Impersonal is his best option.

Plus, hey, the coroner won’t be done yet, and Benny’ll be getting edgy and unpleasant like he usually does when waiting, so Dean moves off down the street.

It’s an agreeable day, all things considered; aside from the pollution collecting on the horizon and the fact that his friend’s wife is dead (they are still friends, right?), the sky is close to a rich cornflower blue that reminds Dean of Kansas summers spent sprawled over sun bleached grass, heat-lulled and sleepy as he gazed the sky. This suburb is one of the nicer areas in town – not too ritzy, but still gentrified enough after the war that it doesn’t see much crime. A lot of houses with white picket fences and neat lawns and colorless exteriors line the street, not unlike Dean’s own neighborhood. The ‘Hollywoodland’ sign is visible as it hangs jauntily from the Hollywood hills. It’s pretty, even if shooting a gun felt far more normal to him than mowing the lawn ever did.

It takes him about ten minutes to walk to Cas’s house. It’s an average sized home set a way back from the street, painted powder blue with an immaculate front lawn and a white picket fence and neatly pruned rosebushes that line the front path. One car remains in the driveway, which suggests that someone’s home, but Dean can see no movement inside. He knocks lightly on the door before moving around to the side of the house to observe. He waits about two minutes. No one answers.

There’s no indication of a break in, but Dean can’t poke around too much without gaining the attention of the neighbors, so he makes a couple of notes on his pad and begins to walk quickly back in the direction he came.

 

Benny’s standing over the body when Dean gets back, arms crossed against his broad chest, scowling.

“What have we got, doc?” Dean says, moving to stand beside Benny.

The coroner - Chuck - rises from his stoop near the victim’s head. “Not much, so far. Some partial footprints were found – I’ll try and cast a mold. She has rope burns on her wrist, suggesting her attacker tied her up, and she died as a result of the neck wound; her jugular was cleanly sliced through. I’ll do full tests once I get her back to the morgue. Do you have any questions?”

Dean shakes his head. “Thanks, Doctor Shurley.” He turns to Benny. “It’s not really your usual domestic, though, is it? Husbands prefer blunt force trauma or a gun to slitting their wives throats. Messy.”

“Domestic murders are common. Nine times outta ten, it’s the significant other.” Benny shrugs. “The witness who called it in might have some more information, though – Fitzgerald got her name and address for us. She lives around the block. Game?”

“Yeah. Then we can find Novak and see what he has to say. Personally, I’m banking on it being more sinister than your average husband-and-wife dispute gone bad.”

Benny snorts out a laugh. “Work this job for as long as I have, brother, and you’ll start to understand that the simplest explanation is often best.”

        

“That was a waste of fuckin’ time,” Benny says half an hour later, easing himself in to the passenger seat of Dean’s 1937 Chevy Master Deluxe (outfitted with a police radio, because he’s not going to let his baby rust in his drive while he drives a squad car around LA, thank you very much). The witness – an elderly woman who’d talked more about local town gossip than what she’d seen that morning – had told them very little. She’d reminded Dean of one of those little old ladies from a Raymond Chandler novel that stuck their noses where they shouldn’t be.

“We learned that they were well liked and kept to themselves,” Dean recites, “and I suppose the biscuits were pretty awesome. Guess we’re off to find Novak next.”

“House or work?”

“Work. He’s head of Trauma at Los Angeles County, so there’s probably our best bet.”

Benny grunts in affirmation and turns the radio up.

 

The hospital is cold and stinks of disinfectant and piss. Despite the fact that it’s summer, Dean pulls his wool suit blazer further across his chest as he tugs his fedora from his head. He hates hospitals almost as much as he hates airplanes. They remind him of his father and death and post-war pain when bullets were dug from his bones.

Benny enquires at the reception desk whether a Dr. Castiel Novak is working today, and the nurse points them in the direction of the ER. Dread pools low in Dean’s gut in juxtaposition to the anticipation building along the edge of his nerves. He’s skittish, uncomfortable, and not even listening to Julie London’s sugarsweet voice on the way over had settled his unease.

“This guy hasn’t been too hard to find. You’d think he would’ve shot out of town if he had killed his wife,” Benny grunts. “Or he could just be overconfident.”

The guy was a badass for sure, but social obliviousness and loyalty to the point of recklessness were always more Cas’s style than overconfidence (the closest he ever got to the latter was possibly hubris, in the Greek tragedy sense of the word, at least). Dean doesn’t say anything, though. Sometimes it’s best to shut up.

Cas is leaning over a small child when they approach, tending to a rather garish looking leg wound. Dean could recognize him anywhere. He still has that ridiculous hair; his skin is that same shade of golden brown it was in Japan. Dean feels a sudden rush of warmth at his familiarity.

“Cas?” Dean says when they’re standing about a yard away, completely bypassing objective professionalism and landing somewhere in the ‘wistfully reminiscent’ court. Fucking hell. There’s even an edge of hope to his voice, if the reason they’re here wasn’t embarrassing enough already.

Cas stiffens, bright baby blues widening as they catch Dean.

Dean will not turn this in to some sort of _Gone with the Wind_ moment. Just no.

“Dean?” Cas replies after a beat, voice still husky and deep like he smokes a ten pack a day and chews gravel with his fifth of whiskey each night, and Dean would be lying if he said it didn’t shoot straight to his dick.   

“Yeah,” Dean says, his voice catching. He shifts his weight, shuffles his feet, looks to the floor and back up from under his brow. “It’s been a while.”

“It has.” Cas’s eyes narrow as they dart up and down Dean’s body, cataloguing. There’s nothing sexual about it - it’s totally clinical, but it makes Dean’s hair stand up nonetheless. Cas almost smiles before his gaze shifts to Benny, and suddenly he draws his shoulders back, bristling as the warmth in his expression evaporates. “This is… unexpected.”

If Benny thought that Dean and Cas’s initial exchange was unusual, he doesn’t say anything. Instead he fishes in his pocket and pulls out his LAPD badge, flashing it at Cas. “LAPD Homicide, Doctor Novak. I’m Detective Lafitte, and my partner is Detective Winchester. We’re here to investigate an incident that occurred early this morning. If you take a seat, we can explain the deal is.”

“What is this?” Cas says, looking concerned. “Dean? What’s going on?”

Dean grimaces. “Do what he says, Cas.”

Cas looks confused, but he turns and gestures for a nurse to attend to the boy with the wounded leg before he walks towards what looks to be his office. Dean and Benny follow. This, by far, is the worst part of the job. Dean can take ten dead bodies and five gunfights in a day and walk away relatively unscathed, but telling people that their loved ones are dead – and that they might be a suspect in the case, adding further insult to injury – kills him a little bit every time.

The office is small and barely furnished. A long tan trenchcoat hangs on a rack by the door. Cas has few personal effects except for two framed pictures on the wall, one of a pretty woman with bright red hair standing next to a much younger Cas, and another that is unmistakably Daphne. Dean feels sick.

“I assume this isn’t a social visit,” Cas says, sitting down on the chair behind his desk. Dean looks away sheepishly.

“Dean said you two know each other,” Benny says. He eyes Cas wearily.

“We have a history,” Cas replies. His voice is strong, steady, matching his hard stare, and fuck, that sentence could mean anything. Both Cas and Benny appear to be playing some sort of mental chess game with each other, a kind of power struggle. Benny seems to see Cas as a criminal, and Cas is reacting to Benny like he’s some sort of threat. It’s confusing and Dean really wants to deal with none of it. He needs it to end. Now.

“We’re here because we found a body,” he says, interrupting their competitive staring as the words sort of falling from his mouth in a stumbling rush, and Cas’s glare moves from Benny to Dean. He looks like he’s had enough of absolutely everything, his brow heavy and furrowed, those eyes the color of a pre-storm summer sky staring unfalteringly back at Dean’s. Dean’s not gonna lie; he’s a little intimidated, a little scared, and about ten types of turned on, and that’s so fucking inappropriate in this situation that he should really head straight back to central and hand his badge over immediately. Because shit. Nausea rolls across his stomach again, panic itching at his skin at the thought of what he’s here to do. The world suddenly feels too small. He tries to breathe deeply. This needs to be done, and he owes it to Cas, but fuck; how do you tell a friend that you’ve just found his wife with her throat cut in the middle of an empty block?

Cas looks uneasy, like the puzzle pieces are starting to fit but he doesn’t like the picture it’s creating. Dean swallows and tries again.

“I’m so sorry, Cas, but…” he pauses. Feels his expression soften. “It was Daphne.”

Some people cry. Some people scream. Some people try to hit him, others accuse him of playing a cruel joke, and most attempt a variation or combination of all four.

Cas does nothing.

He just sits, face blank. Dean understands; the war doesn’t desensitize you to grief, or even death, but it teaches you how to compartmentalize, to ignore the feelings until a more appropriate situation in which to deal with them arises. If your best friend gets shot down in front of you, there’s no time to stop and cry over his dead body. You gotta keep going, ‘cause if you don’t – if you hesitate for even a moment – you’ll end up a corpse, too.

Cas is going through all this now. Dean can see it in the set of Cas’s jaw and the angle of his spine and his downcast gaze and it _hurts._ He wants to reach across the desk and pull Cas against him, to hug away the pain, which is, yeah.

The silence stretches, thick and uncomfortable, before Cas says softly: “How?”

Dean hates hearing Cas sound so dejected. This is the guy who deserves the silver medallion; the guy who can disable an enemy target in seconds and save a person’s life with the same pair of nimble hands; the guy who fucking threw himself directly in the line of fire to _save Dean_ when Dean most definitely didn’t deserve to be saved.

He definitely shouldn’t be on this case. It’s only just begun, and already he’s far too emotionally involved.

“We’re not sure,” Dean says slowly, and thank god Benny’s kept his mouth shut so far, because Dean doesn’t trust what might come out of his partner’s mouth, especially considering the way Benny’s been eying Cas like he’s the next real-life Johnny Morrison. “That’s what we’re here to find out.”

Cas frowns. “I’m assuming I’m a suspect.”

“Yeah,” Benny says, and fuck, and it sounds like a challenge. Dean revokes his thanks. “We were hoping you could tell us how it happened.”

“Last night, I was out of town. I came back this morning to start here at eight.”

“Convenient. Did you stop off at your house on your way?”

“No.”

“When was the last time you saw, or spoke to, your wife?”

“I called her last night to see how she was. I didn’t stop off this morning because I assumed she’d be at work. She’s a teacher.”

Benny leans forward. “Do you have anyone who can confirm your whereabouts? An alibi?”

Cas stills, looking concerned. “I have people who can… confirm that I was out of town last night.”

“But they can’t confirm that you were where you say you were at the time the murder likely occurred.”

“… No. It’s unlikely.”

Benny leans back in the chair, looking satisfied. Cas attempts to maintain clear composure. Dean glances between them.

“I didn’t kill her, though,” Cas says, straightening his shoulders, looking defiantly at Benny’s curled mouth. “I know that partners are more often than not the guilty party in domestic injuries and death; I deal with them every day. But this is not the case here. I am innocent.”

“Yeah, well, you and every other murderer, Novak. Only the evidence can determine that,” Benny says. “And perhaps the jury. You can expect to hear from us later today. Dean?”

Dean fumbles, his gaze lingering for a beat too long. “Er, yeah. Pretty sure that’s it.”

Benny stands, pushing his hat back on his head and adjusting his suit jacket. “Good day, Dr. Novak,” he says, and promptly leaves the room. Dean glances guiltily at Benny’s retreating figure before scribbling his number and address on a piece of paper and handing it across the desk. Now Benny’s left the room, Cas looks sort of hollow, kind of a little like he’s crumpling in on himself.

“I’m so sorry, Cas. Call me. Please. As a friend, not as… yeah.” Dean attempts a smile, though he only really makes it to a pained grimace. Cas tries to return it, but it just succeeds in making him look even more miserable, and he clearly realizes it because his lips drop almost immediately. “Thank you, Dean. Truly.”

Dean nods, pulling his own hat on to his head and tipping it in Cas’s direction. “Yeah.” His voice cracks. He clears his throat. “I’m sorry we had to meet again under such difficult circumstances.” Tilting his hat briefly in Cas’s direction, he pivots quickly and hurries after Benny.

 

“Bad day?” Charlie Bradbury asks as soon as Dean enters the squad room, and Dean chuckles darkly. Charlie works Homicide’s switchboard. She knows everything.

“You could say that,” he throws over his shoulder as he approaches his desk and picks up the receiver.

First, Dean dials his mother in law’s house and tells Lisa that he’s going to be home a little later tonight, so she shouldn’t drop Ben around too early. Then he calls Sam’s office number up at Wilshire and asks if he wants to meet for a drink. Sam agrees.

“Hey, Charlie,” Dean says after he’s hung up. “You interested in coming to The Silver Spoon with Sam and me?”

That’s how he finds himself in his favourite Jazz club a half hour later with a beer in hand, discussing loose particulars of the Novak case with Sam and Charlie.

The club is Dean’s preferred haunt as it still plays good-old classic jazz, not the shit bebop rubbish that’s popular these days. Big Band really isn’t Dean’s thing – he’s definitely in to musical minimalism. Give him Ella Fitzgerald over Charlie Parker any day.

Tonight, a new voice warbles though the speakers, the timbre thick and rich as it curls to where they’re seated in the middle of the room. She’s young and pretty, has a voice like sugar syrup, and Dean can’t help but unconsciously tap his fingers to the rhythm against his leg as Sam leans across the table towards him, still wearing his business suit, brow furrowed in frustration.

“You’ve got to get some solid evidence to prove his innocence, Dean,” Sam’s saying. “A flimsy alibi’s going to do bubkis at this stage. You know how the department loves its open and shut domestics – great for publicity.”

Dean doesn’t say anything, just takes a gulp of his beer. Sam looks a bit like he’s about to pull something, he’s so keyed up, and Charlie seems to be amused by their interaction.

“You don’t think I know this, Sam? That I haven’t worked this job for the last six months?”

Sam huffs and leans back in his chair, twisting his head away.

“You two are like an old married couple,” Charlie comments, breaking the tension.

“We get that a lot,” Sam says, voice flat. Dean sighs irately.

“Look, Sammy, thanks. I get all that, and I appreciate your input. I’m just currently more concerned with the legal side of things, since I’m not a district attorney.”

Sam rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling, and he steeples his hands below his chin in his classic thinking pose. “I’d say, at this stage, the facts don’t look good. He has no solid alibi, the body was found close to the house, and there was no sign of a break in, as you said, suggesting she let her attacker in willingly. Or they had a key.”

“Have you got the full coroner’s report yet?” Charlie asks.

“Nah,” Dean replies, rubbing the back of his neck. “That’ll be through tomorrow morning. At least they haven’t taken Cas in for questioning yet. That’ll probably happen tomorrow, too.”

Sam gazes at him sympathetically, and Dean fucking hates those sad puppydog eyes, he really does. “Dean…”

“I know I shouldn’t get emotionally involved. I shouldn’t even be on this case. But I feel like I owe it to him, you know?”

Sam says nothing. Charlie reaches out a hand and rests it on his shoulder. The girl continues to sing about dreaming a little dream of me, and Dean wants to hit something.

After a tense couple of moments, conversation moves on to Jess – Sam’s wife – and their two-year-old son, as well as Charlie’s gossip. Dean only pays half attention, still too consumed by the day’s events. He orders another beer.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” a flirtatious female voice with an unmistakable British lilt whispers in his ear as soon as the waiter leaves. Dean represses the urge to groan.

“Bela,” he says stonily. “What do you want?”

Bela laughs, and Dean doesn’t miss the way that it catches Charlie’s attention. Her eyes dart up and down Bella’s body as her conversation with Sam ends abruptly. Huh.

“You, of course.” She slides in to the chair beside Dean’s, who rolls his eyes.

“Sam, Charlie, this is Bela.”

“Bela Talbot, saleswoman,” she says, all pink lips stretched over perfect white teeth as she proffers her hand.

“Con artist is more like it,” Dean says. Bela mock-slaps his arm.

“Rude.”

Charlie grins. “So you’re the informant I’ve heard a lot about.”

Bela’s attention shifts from Sam to Charlie. Her mouth twists to something less predatory, more genuine. “And you’re Charlie. She’s so pretty, Dean. Why didn’t you tell me?”

Charlie blushes and looks away.

“So why are you really here? What’s the dope?” Dean asks, lacing his fingers together. Bela’s features slide to something more serious.

“You’re working the Daphne Novak case, right? I’m here to warn you. Get out. Now. This is way bigger than you or me, Dean. Leave it as a domestic; arrest Castiel Novak tomorrow on a murder charge. Don’t go poking where your nose oughtn’t be.”

Dean frowns, Sam looks concerned, and Charlie’s eyes widen slightly.

“Why should I trust you?” Dean retorts. “You could be whistling fucking Dixie for all I know. ‘Femme Fatale’, all right. I don’t put innocent men away just ‘cause.”

Bela rolls her eyes, exhaling sharply. “Pull your head out of your ass for once, Winchester, before you lose it completely. I’m not the threat. I gained nothing for this; I’m doing it out of the kindness of my heart.”

“Hey, if this information is so true, where’d you get it from?”

Bela’s disposition changes quickly from serious back to flirty. She flashes her Great Whites, and Dean’s tempted to make a comment about how she’s not Marilyn fucking Monroe, she can stop with the stupid fake smiles because it’s pissing him off, but she starts talking again before he manages to phrase it properly. “I don’t kiss and tell, Dean; you should know that.” Examining her fingernails, she continues with: “All I’ll say is that little birdy told me. A trusted birdy. One that flies back to the nest often.”

“I heard Hollywood’s hiring again, Bela,” he returns sarcastically. “Better shift your pretty little ass down there before they employ someone less wicked.” She laughs again, high and tinkling, and Dean wants nothing more than for her to shut up.

“Well, I know when I’m not wanted,” she says, standing up. “Just remember what I told you, Dean. It was lovely to meet you Sam. Charlie.”

After sending a wink in Charlie’s direction, she wanders off, hips swaying, perfect golden hair bouncing against those elegant shoulders, and Dean swears he hears Charlie sigh wistfully.

“Fuck. I was definitely not drunk enough for that,” Dean says, and stops Sam from talking about it by engaging Charlie in conversation about the Werewolf killer. Sammy is his brother and his best friend and his entire fucking world, but sometimes the dude just needs to stop worrying and shut the fuck up.

 

Dean gets an unexpected caller at nine thirty that night.

“You shouldn’t really been here,” Dean says after he’s opened his front door. “Not until we’ve cleared your name off the suspect list.”

“I know,” Cas says, but he steps forward in to Dean’s hallway anyway. The _I didn’t want to be alone_ is unspoken, but it hangs in the air between them regardless. They sort of stand there for a moment instead, Dean uncomfortable, Cas glancing around at the pictures on the walls. The sound of the radio filters through the air, the dull static buzz of some broadcast drama that Dean has no interest in. A car wheezes asthmatically to a start somewhere up the street. It’s kind of surreal, having Cas stand in his front hall – a piece of his past in present context.

“Ben’s asleep and Lisa’s at work,” Dean says after about a minute, trying to fill the almost-silence. “So I have the house to myself tonight.”

“You’re still with Lisa?”

Dean shakes his head slowly. “Not really. It’s… complicated.”

Cas tilts his head and narrows his eyes, like he’s processing this information. “I see.”

“We’re married on paper. We don’t live together – she lives with her mom. Ben’s not actually my kid, but we raise him together ‘cause it’s way too hard for single mothers.” Dean pauses. “I think… I think she was expecting something different to come back from the war, you know?”” He turns to look at the picture on the wall of he, Ben and Lisa before he left for the Pacific, all perfect smiles and warmth in Sammy’s back yard. “Something less damaged. A hero. Instead she got an insomniac invalid who won’t talk about anything that happened and drinks too much to compensate.”

Cas doesn’t say anything for a little while, choosing instead to gaze at Dean through the gloom, his stare as unwavering and unnerving as always. “Most of us came back emotionally disconnected,” he murmurs eventually. “You shouldn’t blame yourself, Dean.”

Dean sighs. Shakes his head. “I just…” He rubs his hand across his face before looking back up at Cas. “This isn’t about me, anyway. You’re the one who lost your wife today. Can I get you a drink?”

“Anything you’re drinking is fine.”

Dean moves off towards the living room, Cas following closely behind. He doesn’t bother to turn the light on, because the milky moonlight seeping in through the window is enough to cast Cas’s face in to sharp relief.

The living room is small and isn’t used much, aside from when he has guests over, which isn’t often. Dean pours both he and Cas a tumbler of whiskey and sits down on the green velvet couch under the window. Cas accepts the drink and lowers himself to the opposite end. He stares down in to the amber liquid like it possibly holds the meaning of life before taking a deep swill, and Dean mimics the action. It burns as it trickles down his throat, smoky and strong.

“It’s… strange,” Cas says after a few moments, “to expect someone to be there, and then they’re just... not. I keep looking up at the door, anticipating that Daphne will walk through it, calm and collected as ever. For her to kiss me on the cheek and ask about my day.” He pauses. Takes a swill and lowers the glass back to his thigh. Shrugs off his coat. “Sorry, I… I suppose I’m not really making sense.”

“No, I think I get it,” Dean says, voice thick. The words almost stick in his throat.

“I didn’t kill her, though,” Cas says quietly in to the dark room, and it almost sounds like an aborted prayer. “I’m sorry. I’m not even sure why I came here, really; I know it’s entirely inappropriate. I suppose I just… currently have few people I can rely on.”

Something throbs painfully in Dean’s lower abdomen.

“You know that tomorrow that we’ll have to take you in for official questioning, right? Regardless of what the coroner does or doesn’t find.”

Cas nods. “I’m aware of that. You and Detective Lafitte have to do your jobs.”

Why the fuck does bad shit have to happen to good guys like Cas?

“I know I’ve said it, but I am sorry we had to reconnect like this. I should have contacted you months ago.” He looks away from Cas, watching the way the warm golden light from the kitchen throws shapes across the floorboards, fractured squares that never quite meet.

“Me too,” Cas says, his weight shifting, and suddenly there’s warm pressure against Dean’s shoulder, but light, as if Cas isn’t really sure if touching Dean is something he should – or is allowed to - do.

They stay like that for a while longer, not talking, Cas’s hand pressed against Dean’s shoulder, Dean’s hand moving to Cas’s knee. The silence isn’t uncomfortable – in fact, quite the opposite. It’s just breathing and heartbeats and radio static as the world turns around them.

Too much to say and not enough all at once.

 “I used to wonder why the world doesn’t just stop when someone close to me dies,” Dean says later, when Cas has pulled on his trench coat and is standing in the doorway, framed by the streetlight, looking almost like some sort of angel. Perhaps he is. “How can everybody else not be mourning that loss? People just continue with their lives while your own world collapses. It doesn’t make sense.”

Cas smiles a little then, something genuine and warm and private, not pained like earlier in the evening. The quirk of his mouth is as if he understands a lot of things that Dean doesn’t. “Good night, Dean. And thank you.”

He walks away, then, coattails flapping in the cool fall breeze like a pair of awkward wings. Dean watches him until Cas is swallowed by darkness.

When Lisa gets home later that night, when it’s obviously too late for her to make it out to Venice where her mother lives, she sees the glasses sitting on the coffee table as she walks through to the kitchen.

“Did you have a friend over?” she says, pulling her coat off and hanging it on the back of a chair.

And Dean wants to hug her, to press her against his chest and breathe her in, because even though she stinks like other men and stale booze and cigarette smoke, even though their marriage is over and they live in different houses, she’s alive. She’s alive and she’s still his best friend, despite all the shit he’s been though, and he needs to remind her more often, because Ben, Sammy and her are the only family he’s still got.

Instead he says, “Yeah, an old war buddy.” and Lisa knows not to ask anything else.

They move off to separate rooms and separate beds, the chasm between them more obvious than it has been in a long time, but Dean can’t help but mourn the concept of her and what their relationship represents just a little bit tonight.

 

* * *

 

**Part 2**

 

> “you begin saving the world by saving one man at a time; everything else is grandiose romanticism or politics.”

– Charles Bukowski

 

That night, Dean dreams.

It doesn’t feel like a dream, though. It’s too linear, too detailed. It feels _real._

He’s back on Okinawa, breathing in displaced earth and Ocean air, crunching over rock and bone and debris. Smoke and dust are curling in to a haze around him and his few remaining squadmates as they move to find shelter for the evening.

“It wasn’t your fault, Winchester,” Cas is saying, voice as guttural as ever - dry from overuse, dirt, and gunpowder - as it drifts towards him. Dean walks resolutely forward, pointedly ignoring everyone. Above the sound of gunfire, he can hear this god-awful noise, like bark being ripped from a tree. It takes a moment for him to realize that the din is coming from his chest.

It sounds as if his breaths are being torn out of him, grinding against his trachea. Like juggernauts grinding to a stop.

There’s a hand on his shoulder, then, blunt fingers digging in to the muscle. “Dean…”

Dean shrugs Cas off. He knows he shouldn’t – Cas is his higher commanding office – but they can’t stop. They need to reach relative safety before…

He swallows, tries to ignore those thoughts. This is right now, and he needs to keep the five remaining soldiers he has with him alive - apologies and self-flagellation can come later. “You’re doing great, guys. Keep going. We should be able to rest soon.” His voice is rough, cracked around the edges, but he manages to force the words out. Cas huffs behind him, sounding defeated, and Dean _knows_ how he feels. The surviving men are all bloody and beaten, none without both physical and psychological wounds. They’ve seen Japanese civilians throw themselves off cliffs on American approach, fought for their own lives against gunfire and rough terrain every day, and watched their allies bleed out over the dusty earth in front of them, blood flowering over cracked ground, unable to do anything but leave the bodies where they fall. Cas did his best as a medic, aiding when he could to lessen the physical burdens, but Dean knows that Cas took some losses as personal fuck ups. Muttered to himself every night about what he could have done better as they divvied up rations and tried to catch a few hours of rest.

They wake up every day knowing that the odds are stacked against them, that this morning could be their last.

Dean tries not to make it a conscious thought, however, because actively knowing something could kill you only makes you more vulnerable, more likely to be killed. It becomes almost like a game that you’re an outside observer to, the present moment a gamble you’re not quite living.

This becomes a reality as soon as they crest the hill and they’re met with gunfire.

They’ve been lucky for the last few hours. Since their previous… altercation, the one where Dean’s error in judgment cost his platoon too many lives (the one Dean _can’t_ focus on right now, or more lives will be lost), they’ve had no engagements whilst heading back towards a base. It was only a matter of time.

Dean has his gun drawn, but he’s not fast enough.

Explosions ring out over the clearing. He thinks _this is it_ , a shower of bullets spraying out in arcs over the boot-churned earth, the sickening slide of a mortar loading echoing somewhere ahead.

“ _Dean_!” Cas yells, and suddenly there’s a body barreling in to his, pushing him to the ground. Pain blooms in his left shoulder, through the muscles in his right side, and he hears, distantly, an explosion.

 _Cas Cas_ _Cas_.

He’s not sure if he says the name out loud, though, because he has a face full of dirt and he hit his head as he went down. There’s deadweight on his back. His ears are ringing. He registers - somewhat belatedly, he thinks, the thought drifting fleetingly across his consciousness - that the pain in his shoulder is now merely a dull throb. His thoughts are difficult to connect in to liner patterns; it’s like he’s underwater and running out of oxygen, lights flashing behind his eyelids, the surface too far away to reach, and he’s floating on the current, pressure building, and, and -

The world comes rushing back to him all too quickly, slamming in to him, jarring and unpleasant as his shoulder throbs. He gasps for air, earning himself a mouthful of dirt. Pain washes over him in dull waves that slowly intensify.

 “You were shot,” Cas is murmuring, “straight through to your deltoid. You’re gonna –“

Dean doesn’t catch those final words because there’s another explosion. He can feel the tremors run through the earth, throwing Cas and he apart, and he feels his head hit something sharp. His neck snaps back; something cool trickles down the back of his neck.

The world fades out like a sepia-toned photograph, no matter how hard Dean tries to hold on.

 

He wakes to the sound of his own voice, sleep-slow and hoarse, yelling _“Cas!_ ” But he’s alone in his room with nothing but his heartbeat in his ears and the miasma of silence.

 

When Dean gets to the station the next morning, Bobby informs him that Benny’s already got Cas in interview room two. Dean freaks out. What if Benny’s tried to get Uriel to _persuade_ Cas to volunteer information? He doesn’t want to get back down stairs to find a bloodied Cas curled up in a chair.

Dean approaches the room warily and stands outside the door before he enters.

“Dean seems to think you’re some kind of angel, but I don’t trust you,” Benny’s voice filters out in to the corridor, and thank god, if he’s talking it’s okay. “You know more than you’re lettin’ on.”

“At least you’re thorough,” Cas bites back dryly, and Dean’s not sure which side he should be supporting in that moment, because although he’s a cop and should be supporting Benny’s interrogation, he can’t help but feel a surge of affection for Cas.

Dean enters then, brandishing the file on the case in front of him like a shield, and both Benny and Cas’s heads turn to stare at him expectantly.

“Good morning, Detective Winchester,” Cas says at the same time as Benny mumbles, “It’s nice of you to finally join us, Dean.”

Well. Dean knows who’s had this upper hand this morning.

“Sorry,” he says, sitting on the chair next to Benny’s. “I had trouble getting Ben to school this morning.” There was actually an argument with Lisa, because Dean had spent the night pacing the corridors of their house after his dream, unable to sleep, and Lisa was angry that he’d kept her and Ben awake.

Benny grunts. “At least this one came quietly,” he says, inclining his head towards Cas, who says nothing and just glares at Benny. “Gabe helped with the arrest.”

Dean nods, fiddling with the knobs on the tape recorder. “Do you want a lawyer, Cas?”

“Not initially. I have phoned one - Balthazar is on his way.”

Dean nods again and hits the record button. “Detectives Dean Winchester and Benny Lafitte interviewing Doctor Castiel Novak on suspicion of the murder of Daphne Novak…”

Overall, the interview goes pretty well, all things considered.

They run through the same questions as they did yesterday. Benny confirms that Cas’s alibi puts him in San Francisco the night before the murder on a medical thing. Cas’ answers are short and to the point. His lawyer is an enthusiastic British man who cracks a few too many jokes, but who is evidently good at his job, regardless. They finish up in under an hour. Benny looks pretty damn annoyed by the end of it.

“That’s all, Doctor Novak,” Benny almost growls. “You’re remaining here ‘til we get enough evidence to either make a formal arrest, or release you.”

Cas just jerks his head in a half-nod before turning to face Balthazar, who’s shuffling papers. Dean leans close to Benny.

“It’s a bum rap,” he says quietly. “We’ve got bubkis. We have to let him go, Benny.”

Benny grits his teeth and huffs. “Yeah. I figured as much.”

Dean can’t help but count it as a victory.

 

Searching Cas’s house makes Dean super uncomfortable, but he does it anyway, because that’s his job, and if he had a problem in the first place, he should have relinquished the case to someone more suitable.

It really is a nice house – open and comfortable. The pictures on the walls are much the same as the ones in his office at the hospital. There are a couple of Daphne with her family, and one that is a much younger Cas with two older people who must be his parents. No shots with friends, though.

However, on the mantelpiece in the living room, there’s a photograph of Dean and Cas and the rest of their squadron, ‘2nd Battalion, 1st Marines’ scratched in to the bottom left hand corner of the paper, and Dean feels a pang of something he can’t identify. All his friends from the war are there, all the men he lost contact with because they either died or the memories associated with them were too painful. Dean turns away quickly and moves rooms.

The carpet that runs through the house is a soft cream colour, and the walls are painted off-white, except for the kitchen, which has a linoleum floor and sunny yellow walls. No blood.

There is no strong scent of bleach or ammonia in any of the rooms on the first floor, either. No sharp instruments covered in flaking red. Everything’s clear. He moves upstairs to find Benny searching through the bathroom.

“They don’t sleep together,” Benny says, opening a cupboard door. “Separate rooms.”

“That’s not unusual,” Dean says stiffly.

“Naw, it’s not. Still could be seen as a potential motive, though. Wanted to bop her off so he didn’t have to pay her out.”

Dean deliberately ignores the implication. “Downstairs is clear, anyway. I’ll recheck the bedrooms before moving to the back yard.”

If Dean thought exploring the other rooms was weird, it’s nothing compared to seeing Cas’s bedroom. There are nearly ordered suits in the wardrobe. The double bed is neatly made up with a purple floral-patterned bedspread – tight hospital corners – and a lace curtain dangles in the window, but there are few personal effects, save for a bunch of flowers on the dresser, a bookshelf stacked with medical books and fiction, and a record player by the bed. Dean spends as little time in there as he can, feeling even more like he’s violating someone’s personal space, life a thief.

He finds the picture wedged between the pages of a book beside Cas’s bed. The title has warn away, faded gold against green leather, but poking out the top Dean can see the edge of a photograph. He pulls. It’s a close-up of him and Cas and Victor, another of their Batallion members, all looking spivvy in their army greens. Cas is flashing one of his rare grins at the camera, standing to the side as Dean and Victor wrapped their arms around each other’s shoulders. He flips it over to see the inscribed date – 3rd May 1945 - and he remembers that day. They’d been swapped in to relieve the 77ths. He and Cas were starting to get close. The Captain had mostly kept to himself until then, working quietly over wounds at night, letting the other soldiers muck around at camp but never joining in himself, and only writing the occasional letter. Just before the photo was taken, he and Dean’d been chewing candy and spam together, propped up on rocks and facing each other. Dean had said, “I entered the marine corps to pay for my brother’s college degree.” He’d paused, dug another mouthful out of the can. “Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“My father always wanted my brothers and I to be soldiers,” Cas’d replied thoughtfully after a beat. He’d taken another mouthful, didn’t react to the awful flavor, and finished it before he’d continued. “I tried to buck the trend by getting a medical degree, but clearly I inevitably wound up here anyway. Drafted, in the end.”

They’d shared small, comforting smiles before Victor had barreled over with the camera – “Lieutenant Winchester, Captain Novak – look what I got!” – and they’d had their picture snapped. Victor was Dean’s best friend, at that point, and almost as good as Dean with a gun, but Dean had struggled to get close to soldiers when he was the one deciding each day who he’d send out for what. It was like playing fucking Russian roulette or, hell, _God_ over some poor kid’s life, and Dean didn’t feel like he had the right to that responsibility. But Cas had been okay, because he was Dean’s commanding officer, and Dean couldn’t order him in to near-suicidal situations. They got along easily, pushed each other to be better people. Used their affection for each other as strength rather than a weakness.

After the war, Dean hadn’t been able to deal with the fallout. He’d been sent back to America at the turn of the battle in the Pacific, arm in a sling, his praises sung as a hero as he was regaled with tales of victory in Europe and the coming victory over Japan. Germany had surrendered; it was only a short period of time before Japan did too.

Dean felt like the opposite of a hero, though. The high of returning to see family could only last so long. No-one understood, back home – they didn’t know the horrors he’d seen, what he’d done himself, what baggage he carried as a result. He couldn’t talk about it, and instead went through the motions of everyday life without really _feeling_ them. All contact with Cas had been lost the moment Dean had been sent to have the bullet dug out of his shoulder. They hadn’t discussed whether they’d stay friends post-war - if they’d write, or even catch up if they were ever in the same town. It was never something really considered. So Dean was left with memories, some that tortured him in his sleep, and others that left him feeling hollow and broken and aching for something he couldn’t figure out.

Cas knew what Dean had done, though – had watched with his own eyes – and Dean wasn’t sure he could face that now he was trying to ease back in to his old life. He’d prefer to remain a coward, considered a hero by friends and family. Cas just melted out of Dean’s life as easily as he’d slipped in and worked his way between the cracks of everything Dean thought he knew, and Dean resented him for it, just a little bit. That grew in to almost hatred for a little while, until Dean realized that it was misguided anger better aimed at the war. At himself. Because that was what he was really furious at, what he really hated. There’s always been a fine line between hatred and love, both intense passions dictated by sentiment, and if Dean really didn’t care for Cas any more, he’d feel nothing. Anger meant he felt too much.

Dean had let his feelings for Cas ease in to deep affection as he tried to work his way through his knot of emotions at the end of the war. He’d felt nothing but anger for a very long time, until he began working Homicide and thought maybe he could make up for the devastation he’d caused by saving as many lives as he could. That’s why he was standing in this room right now, clutching a photograph tainted by memories, fighting for one of the only good things he’s had in a long time.

“House’s clean,” Benny says an hour later, ambling in to kitchen where Dean is rechecking the trash. Dean rises from his crouch and moves towards the sink to wash his hands.

“Guess we can see the coroner and call it a day. Coming to the Silver Spoon tonight?”

Benny sighs loudly, nods, and heads out the back door. Dean follows shortly after, the photo burning a hole in his suit pocket.

 

Dean is being tailed.

It’s later that night, around twelve thirty, and he’s heading back from the club towards his car when the clatter of footsteps against the pavement - in a tattoo that doesn’t match his own feet - catches his attention.

His fingers snag the handle of the police-issued firearm he carries everywhere – a Smith & Wesson Model 14 .38 revolver – in the holster that remains permanently clipped to his belt, his hand shaking against the grip. He flicks the safety off.

It’s been raining; everything smells like damp concrete and car exhaust. The clouds mostly cover the moon, so the shadows are coal black as they coalesce against the pavement, except for the streetlights that cut through the gloom, dusting everything they catch in white light. His car is about a block away. Blood rushes against his eardrums, an ocean of noise, and his heartbeat thumps against the waves.

The footsteps continue, echoing dully. Dean focuses on his breathing, on the environment around him. It’s LA, goddamnit, he’s worked the beat here for five years and he understands the streets like a normal citizen wouldn’t.

That doesn’t stop him from being surprised when the bullet whistles past his ear.

Memories of Okinawa come flooding back, all-too familiar imagery and sensory overload; the stench of blood like rust clinging to every breath, choking on dust, screams that echo long after death, the sounds of bullets tearing through muscle and breaking bone. He’s back on that battlefield, dodging enemy attacks, being approached from the north by hostile troops. Swinging around to face the enemy and aiming his rifle.

Except it’s not a rifle, it’s a revolver, and the shadows are walls, not hills. Concrete, solid and safe, rests under his feet. He breathes in inner-city air. A flicker of movement in front of him indicates that his target, dressed in a long coat and a fedora, is hiding in the darkness as it bleeds across the pavement. No uncomfortable canvas uniform, either; just the shirt he put on when he woke up this morning and the weight of his usual wool pea coat.

He draws a ragged breath and keeps the gun cocked, ready to fire.

“Who’s there?” he says, drawing back. “Police. Show yourself.”

“Stay away,” a muffled voice says. Male, probably older than Dean. “If you value your life, arrest Novak. Consider this a warning.” As if to punctuate his words, another shot rings out, the bullet flying close to Dean’s ear. Dean stumbles backwards, hitting his head against the wall, and before he can move in the direction of the voice, he hears the distinct clatter of shoes on concrete as his assailant flees.

He swears loudly, pinching the bridge of his nose and exhaling out his mouth. The fuckers. It’s his second warning in twenty-four hours.

And just when Dean was thinking some good might come from this case.

 

The weeks drip past with little fanfare. Dean starts to obsess over Daphne’s death as no further leads appear. There is, however, another murder similar to Daphne’s – the girl’s throat was slit, ligature marks wrapped around her wrists. She was a fifteen year old who’d came to LA to audition for a role in a Hollywood movie, according to her aunt, whom she was meant to be living with, and she’d travelled across the US all the way from Tennessee. Aside from her cause of death, she had no other links or similarities to Daphne, not even in appearance. She’d only spent a couple of nights in the city before she was killed. Her name was Betty Cowan.

Dean creates a pin board and hangs it on the dining room wall, covered in pictures and notes on facts and evidence. Lisa threatens to stop Ben from staying over if Dean doesn’t clean the damn mess up, _because what if he forgets to lock the door, Ben might see what a madman Dean really is_ , but Deans knows it’s an idle threat so he continues to spread his papers across any flat surface in the near vicinity.

He figures that this is gang related somehow, what with he’s been threatened, but something just doesn’t add up. Maybe it’s some snuff film organised by Mickey Cohen? That’s basically all Dean’s got, right now.

Dean just needs to solve the fucking thing.

He pours over the evidence, trying to find something that might link the two deaths. He’s got nothin’, and that just makes him even more frustrated. What the fuck does a fifteen-year-old aspiring starlet from Tennessee have in common with a twenty-seven year old married woman who lives with her husband in the inner-city suburbs of LA? It’s doing his head in.

His only saving grace - between yelling at the corkboard, conversations with Sam, and shifts downtown - is that Cas comes over occasionally, when they both have time off work, under the pretense of enquiring about Dean’s general progress. Mostly they just chew the fat, though, but Dean’s okay with that; they don’t talk about the war or failed marriages or either of their pasts, just Cas’ patients and Dean’s friends and the happenings at Central. It’s nice. Sometimes he even manages to convince Cas to join him down at the Silver Spoon, and those are his favourite sort of evenings. There’s something about the way the light from the candles there plays across the planes of Cas’ face, the way that it catches in his eyes, the way that Cas’ voice sounds even more like smoke and whiskey over gravel and broken class after a couple of beers, that has Dean entertaining thoughts of Cas in the shower.

He tries not to think about that when he’s sitting opposite Cas, though. Tries not to think about how easy it would be to reach across the table, wrap his hand around the back of Cas’s neck, and pull the other man’s mouth against his. Even to reach under the table and stroke Cas’s thigh. Anything to release that sexual tension that he feels has been building since the day they first met at their base somewhere in the Pacific.

But Cas has shown no overt interest so far, aside from the occasional lingering touch and glances that stretch to long periods of staring. Dean figures that it’s just _Cas_ , just how he acts, and that Dean’s fabricating the rest in his head.

Dean’s known for a long time that he likes both men and women. His sexuality crisis actually reached a peak in his late teens, when he realized that Robert Taylor’s broad shoulders and narrow hips were just as much of a turn-on as Ginger Roger’s soft curves. He hated himself just a little bit for it, because he knew his dad – world war one veteran and a hard-boiled vice cop – would never be even remotely okay with it. So while he didn’t think he had an illness, no matter what any shitkickers said, he knew that being a queer could get him locked in the can – or, worse, sent to an asylum – so Dean mostly tried to move on and reason with himself, because chasing skirt was fun and birds were just as hot as dudes, just for (mostly) different reasons. And that was okay. Aside from the occasional drunken fumble in a dark alleyway, Dean dated women, eventually settling on Lisa when he stumbled to her doorstep one night and discovered that she was four months pregnant. It was a good sort of relationship – Dean could have the wife he required to advance his career, and Lisa could have financial support for the baby. They just didn’t consider the war, how damaged Dean would be when he returned, and what it would do to their relationship.

And now Cas has reappeared in his life and fucked it all to hell in a goddamn hand basket.

 

The first clue comes in the form of a letter sent to Central a month after Daphne’s death.

It’s in a plain envelope with nothing but a stamp, the inked lettering of the post office it was processed at, and ‘LA Central Division: Homicide – Dean Winchester’ typewritten at the top. It lands directly on Dean’s desk, of course, because he’s the only one in the briefing room at the time, and he takes it directly to Bobby.

“Don’t open it, you idjit,” Bobby says as soon as Dean explains what the envelope is. Dean huffs in response, irritated.

“It’s not gonna hurt me. I figured I should bring it here first because it could be evidence for somethin’.”

Bobby rolls his eyes.

“To my flower; the scent of Daphne lingers strongly across my skin,” Dean reads out, and if that’s not fucking creepy, he doesn’t know what is. “The rest is in verse. It’s… hang on.”

_That age is best which is the first,_

_When youth and blood are warmer;_

_But being spent, the worse, and worst_

_Times still succeed the former._

 

The words are familiar. _The age is best… youth and blood are warmer…_ Dean looks out the window and to the street beyond, mulling it over, before glancing at Bobby’s bookshelf. “It must be from Daphne’s killer. I know this - it’s a poem. I can’t remember what, though.”

Bobby pulls the piece of paper from Dean’s fingertips and proceeds to read through it himself. “Huh,” he says after he’s finished. “Weird. Not exactly like serial killers usually send poetry to the department, but hey, there’s a first for everything.”

“I don’t think it’s the whole poem,” Dean says slowly. “More like… a stanza or verse.”

Bobby frowns. “Stanza, verse, whole poem, entire book; I don’t really care. It’s dangerous. And now we need to figure out what do about it.”

“I’ll ask around and see if anyone knows what it’s from,” Dean says, still staring at the words. They’re beginning to swim across the page, now, as his vision blurs.

“Son, don’t get caught up in their games. That’s not import, you should-“

But Dean’s already exiting Bobby’s office, the letter caught tightly in his fist.

 

Dean asks around the station, and even calls Sam, before he starts to doubt that this is a poem at all. Maybe he’s imagining having read this before. Maybe it’s not a clue. Maybe it’s just some sick joke the killer’s playing. A game, like Bobby suggested.

“Dean, give it a rest,” Sam says after Dean’s called him for a third time. “You’ve got other cases. Go home and - I don’t know - read a book or something. Do whatever it is you do.”

Dean’s struck with a sudden idea. “Thanks, Sam. You’re right. I owe you one.” He hangs up before Sam can ask him what he means. “Hey, Charlie, got any plans for this evening? Want to come to the library with me? I’ll buy you dinner and a drink afterwards.”

 

Two hours and a fruitless attempt at searching through the local library’s poetry section later, Dean and Charlie call it a night and head over to one of the new clubs that has opened in town. It’s more modern than the Silver Spoon, and it plays god-awful bebop, but Dean stays because it’s making Charlie happy.

“So you’re really invested in this case, aren’t you?” Charlie says after two beers. Their food has just arrived, and Dean’s mostly interested in getting his teeth into the cheesy-meaty goodness of the burger, but he replies anyway.

“Yeah. Cas was a… good friend during the war. We fought in Okinawa together. Plus, hey, if it’s one thing I’m not, it’s a quitter.”

Charlie finishes her mouthful before leaning back in her chair. “Cas seems helpful. And a bit of a dreamboat.”

Dean almost chokes on his burger and tries to school his expression in to something neutral. He panics. “Er, yeah. We reconnected ‘cause of the case. It’s been good. We’re getting pretty close.”

Charlie rolls her eyes, but she’s smart enough to lower her voice until it’s barely above a whisper. “I’m okay with it, Dean, and I’ve seen the way you look at each other. You two are not just good friends.”

Dean definitely does choke, this time. “Nothing’s going on, I swear!” he hisses back quietly. “I’m married. Cas’s wife died just over a month ago, which isn’t exactly great for, you know.” The music would drown their voices out to anyone close by, but Dean doesn’t want to take any chances.

“Dean Winchester, you’re one of the smartest men I know, but sometimes, you can be exceedingly stupid.” Charlie huffs in mock irritation. “The man clearly desires the good ‘ol Winchester rifle. The way he looks at you, you’d think he and Daphne never slept together, and I know you and Lisa aren’t really together.”

“Charlie, sorry to sink your ship or whatever, but queer relationships aren’t exactly considered cool, alright? If anyone found out…”

“Then don’t let anyone find out.” Charlie levels him with an unreadable expression before she grins.

“He hasn’t shown any interest, either.”

“Now you’re just making excuses, since you’re clearly way too uncomfortable to, god forbid, date him, or whatever.” Charlie takes a sip of her beer. “Speaking of which, can you get me Bela’s number? On the down-low, of course. I’m not dumb.” She winks slyly back across at Dean. He just sighs, figuring the battle’s already lost, and orders another whiskey.

 

Dean’s alone when he’s attacked again. Twice in as many months when he’s off duty has got to be some kind of record.

He’s ambling back to his car after walking Charlie to her own, whistling the melody to _Summertime,_ feeling buzzed from the alcohol as it sings through his bloodstream.

The punch comes out of nowhere, springing from the shadows, glancing off his temple and forcing him to the ground. His first thought is that he’s being mugged by some old prizefighter who knows his right hook, before another three punches are thrown, a knee is resting heavy his back, and the guy is whispering with sour breath in Dean’s ear. “We warned you. Relax; we’ll make it look like suicide.”

His ears ring. He feels his gun sliding from its holster, hears the telltale click of the barrel being loaded despite the wash of blood against his eardrums. The hard, cold muzzle is pressed against the underside of his throat, burning his skin, and his hands are forced on to the grip. He can feel the cool leather of the assailant’s gloves on top of his hands. This is it. He served two years of service only to be taken down by a hard-boiled boxer in a dark Los Angeles alley.

Time congeals, thick and viscous. Everything slows. The sound of his too-fast heartbeat and the air scraping against his throat as he draws shallow breaths are both far louder than they should be. Until -

“Police. Drop the weapon.”

The weight above him shifts, pressure on his spine suddenly lifting Cas is there, pulling Dean out from underneath the guy, gun raised as he shields Dean’s body with his own. “Hands where I can see them,” he growls.

Cas has _got_ to explain the whole cop routine once this is over, because Dean’s as confused as all hell.

“I said: drop the weapon,” Cas grits out, barrel still trained on the assailant. The fedora perched on his head obscures most of his face, and he’s not wearing the usual trench coat; if it weren’t for the sound of his voice, Dean would have no idea who he was.

Mr. Right-hook backs away steadily, but Dean can tell it’s a distraction tactic: the guy runs forward and trying to land a punch. Cas blocks him in one swift, fluid movement, grabbing his arm and twisting until Dean hears the sickening crack of bone splintering. The guy howls, pulling away quickly, and Cas uses the barrel of the gun to hit the back of the crim’s head. He crumples like a ragdoll.

It’s not until Cas is helping Dean up and fishing his keys out of the pocket of his pea coat that Dean realizes that he’s shaking.

“Where are you parked?” Cas says softly, wrapping his hand around Dean’s bicep. His voice is pitched low, the sound a comforting thrum against the razor-edge of Dean’s nerves, and his fingers are a grounding pressure through Dean’s coat. “I caught the streetcar here.”

“About a block away, to the left,” he says. His own voice sounds breathy and thin, echoing too loudly against the sandstone wall and concrete paving. Cas guides him gently forward with a hand against Dean’s lower back, supporting him, reminding Dean of the times Lisa had to come and pick him up after he’d had too much to drink. It always happened on ‘bad days’, when Dean had managed little sleep the night before and was plagued all day by guilt and misery over everything that happened during his time overseas.

“He hit your head, hard,” Cas murmurs in to Dean’s neck, arm working its way across Dean’s back and under his arms. “I’ll check you over when we reach my place. You have nowhere else to be tonight?”

Dean just manages to shake his head in response.

He’s bundled in to the passenger seat of his own car when they reach it. Cas doesn’t say anything, just takes the driver’s seat, and the engine thrums to life as soon as he twists the keys in the ignition. Dean would usually protest, but he’s feeling too groggy, too detached from reality, and, hey, if Cas can save Dean’s life twice, surely Dean can trust him with his baby.

 

Dean doesn’t remember much of the drive to Cas’s, but soon they’re pulling up outside the house Dean remembers searching only a few weeks ago. Cas eases him out and pulls him up the front steps, guiding him straight up the staircase and in to the bathroom, pushing him to  the edge of the sink. A light flickers above Dean’s head. His thoughts are starting to run together, sticky and thick like treacle, and he tries to makes sense of everything through the fog as a dull throb begins in his left temple. He starts with small things, like how Cas’s long fingers are suddenly sorting through the cabinet beside Dean’s head; the feel of the damp porcelain beneath his ass; how the light way the light plays across the wallpaper and tints everything to a sickly green.

“I have some… supplies,” Cas says. He’s holding a washcloth and a bottle of disinfectant. “Can I…?”

“Yeah,” Dean replies, shifting to a more comfortable position and tilting his head up, staring straight at the hard edge of Cas’s jaw. It’s dusted with a five o’clock shadow, bronzed skin dark in the half-light.

There’s an unusual tension between the two of them. Cas takes the washcloth and begins dabbing gently at the cut on Dean’s head, his left hand curling around the bolt of Dean’s jaw to keep Dean’s head steady. It’s strangely intimate. Dean watches Cas concentrate on his injuries; the way his tongue darts out occasionally to wet his lips, the easy rise and fall of his chest, the lines between his brows as he focuses. He smells like wet earth and cinnamon and something sweet, like warmed milk.

“Are you okay?” Cas says once he’s finished wiping the blood away. His breath blows over the sensitive part of Dean’s neck. Dean shivers.

“Er, yeah,” he says. The fuzziness in his head is finally easing, the throbbing is getting worse, and he keeps getting the urge to reach out and pull Cas’s body against his own. Other than that, he’s okay.

 “You’ll have some bruises tomorrow, though.” Cas purses his lips and reaches for the medical tape. “Can you tell me your name and where you live?”

“What’s with the whole cop act?” Dean blurts instead as Cas turns away. There’s silence; Cas freezes for a moment, as if he’s bracing himself for something, but he doesn’t answer. Just presses some tape to the scratch on Dean’s head and levels his gaze back at Dean. Dean sighs irritably.

“Dean Winchester. You know where I live, jerk. My LAPD badge number is 8093, I drive a 1937 Chevy Master. My favorite gun is my Ithaca 1911 service revolver I never turned in. That enough for you, baby?”

The edges of Cas’s mouth turn up in a stiff smile. “Well, hot diggidy dog,” he says on exhale, sarcasm edging the words. “We have a meatball here.”

Dean can’t help himself – he laughs. He laughs so hard he almost slips off the sink. It’s been years since he’s been this hysterical – at least before the war – and he relaxes in to it, stopping only when his stomach aches and tears are streaming down his cheeks. Cas look bewildered, still clutching the tape and a pair of scissors, but he’s grinning.

“So you aren’t the hairy old geezer I thought you were – you do have a sense of humor.”

The unusual tension dissipates before they’re left with something much more intense. It’s almost too much. Dean feels smothered by it, frustrated, itching with the urge to _do something_.

He realizes then that one of Cas’s hands is still resting on his hip, the other pressed tentatively against the edge of Dean’s jaw where he just pushed some tape. Dean clears his throat, and Cas’s eyes just flicker straight to Dean’s lips.

“Um,” Dean says, mouth opening in a small ‘o’. He feels his pulse rise.

“Yes,” Cas says, a delayed answer to Dean’s question. It feels more like permission. He wets his lips, keeping his gaze trained on Dean’s mouth, dragging his hand forward until he can thumb at Dean’s parted lips. Dean has no control over himself; he groans, sucking the tip in to his mouth, and Cas shudders. The salt-skin taste blossoms across Dean’s tongue. He feels those baby blues scrape up his body like a physical force until they meet his own; Cas’s pupils are totally blown, his breathing shallow.

The moment stretches taught between them. It’s fragile and achingly real as they stare at each other, worried that it will shatter if they move, because there’s always that pause, that suspension in time when a decision can teeter either way - the consequences splintering and stretching like lines from a well rehearsed play - before command is lost to impulse.

 Cas is the first to give in. He eases his hand up Dean’s shirt, scraping blunt nails against his spine, before everything crashes like a wave over them. Cas’s replaces his thumb with his mouth, a rasp of lip on lip, closed mouthed and almost rough. He works his hand in to Dean’s hair, pulls Dean’s head back until it’s at a better angle. Dean lets his knees fall apart, lets Cas push between them until their chests are pressed together and Dean can’t stop the desperate noises that fall from his mouth.

“You have no idea how long I’ve…” Cas says against Dean’s lips, pausing before running his teeth lightly down Dean’s neck. Dean whimpers. “I’m crazy about you. You got under my skin, and…” He doesn’t finish. Instead he moves back and begins licking at the seam of Dean’s mouth, both hands moving to cup Dean’s face. Dean rests his own hands on Cas’s lower back, pushing against the fabric of Cas’s shirt until his own fingers are pressing in the dip above Cas’s ass.

“Too much?” Dean says softly, and Cas shakes his head.

“No, never.” Cas pulls away slightly, irises almost all black except for a tiny ring of liquid blue. Dean sighs.

“Shouldn’t we talk about this first, though?” Dean reluctantly eases his hands out of Cas’s pants and presses them again his chest instead, pushing him away just a little. Cas huffs.

“What is there to talk about?”

“You just lost your _wife_ , Cas! You’re not being honest with me about a lot of things.” Dean pinches the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “And this – us - could cost us everything. It’s different from necking a stranger in a bar, this is…”

“Daphne and I never slept together,” Cas says steadily. “I loved her, but… not like that. She was my best friend. Neither of us was particularly interested in sex, hence the separate bedrooms, and we both needed a partner after the war.” He shrugs. “It was easy.”

Dean looks away, gritting his teeth. “And I suppose you’re gonna tell me that you’re lying about the other stuff to keep me safe?”

Cas says nothing.

“Look, Cas, I just…”

“Trust me,” Cas says. He leans back in to Dean’s personal space, fingers plucking at his own buttons. He shrugs off his buttondown and stands only in a white undershirt. “I want this. Want _you_. I feel like we’ve been building towards something since the day we met in that barn for training and you stabbed me.”

“It was an accident,” Dean says, but he grins a little. Cas smiles back, and it’s soft, creases spilling from the corners of his eyes. It’s easy, then, for them to lean forward, two puzzle pieces sliding together, and just _give_ , the rest of the world forgotten. Cas deftly works on the buttons at the front of Dean’s shirt like it’s his life’s mission to get Dean out of his clothes while Dean works on the buckle of Cas’s belt. Dean slides off the sink so he can get his own pants off, everything ending up in a pile on the floor, both men standing in only their underwear.

 “Should we…” Cas says. Dean swallows, his dick growing even harder as his gaze rakes over Cas’s body. He’s gained back the weight he lost during the war and is now covered by lean muscle. Hair swirls from his navel down to the clean V of his hips, and there’s a damp patch where the tip of his cock is straining at his underwear. He flushes under Dean’s gaze. He’s gorgeous.

“So er, Captain Novak, you gonna get that kisser over here and let these peepers take a gander at your Johnson?” Dean smirks, trying to break the uncomfortable intensity that has build between them. “I don’t mean to be a wolf, but…”

Cas laughs, and it’s a short, surprised sound. “You are utterly ridiculous,” he says, but he steps forward. “And only if you make a pass at me first.”

“Fuck,” Dean says, watching the way Cas’s eyes smoulder at him from under long lashes. “You’re gonna kill me.”

Before Dean’s brain can catch up with the program, Cas has pulled Dean’s cock from his underwear and is working his shaft lazily with agile fingers. He mouths at Dean’s neck, bites indigo flowers against Dean’s collarbone below the line of his shirt.  “Gee, but you’re swell,” Cas mumbles as he licks a nipple. Dean can’t help it; his own hands move to Cas’s hips, his fingertips biting against bone, and he moans, low and guttural. Cas appears to take this as his queue to drop to his knees and wrap that perfect mouth around Dean’s cock. He sucks it down deep without warning, making the most glorious sounds around the length; little needy keening noises that make goose bumps erupt across Dean’s skin.

“Fantasized about that mouth since I first saw you,” Dean says, voice thick with arousal. “Not gonna lie.”

Cas rumbles in assent and swirls his tongue around the head. Dean’s knees go weak. He starts carding his hands through Cas’s hair as he leans back against the sink for support, fingertips drawing patterns against Cas’s skull as the locks twist around Dean’s fingers like curls of dark chocolate.

Dean comes immediately when he sees Cas’s hand wrap around his own cock, stroking himself in time with his bobbing head. It’s too much; he tries to let Cas know, but Cas just keeps sucking like it’s his life’s mission to suck Dean’s brain out his dick. His orgasm slams in to him. Cas grins at him, mouth well fucked and swollen and bright red, hair mussed and sticking up at all angles.

“You have any Vaseline?” Dean manages to mumble once the aftershocks have passed. Cas looks at him with wide eyes.

“Yes. And condoms.”

The corner of Dean’s mouth twitches. “Help me up?”

They stop every few moments on their way to the bedroom as they make out against the wall, a snarl of blurred skin and tangled limbs bleeding together in the broken moonlight.

They eventually reach the bed. Cas opens Dean up slowly with Vaseline, taking his time to nose at the nest of hair at the base of Dean’s cock, kiss his way up Dean’s ribs, press bruises with his teeth against the scar tissue that spreads across Dean’s shoulder. It’s been a while since Dean’s slept with a man – at least since his late teens – and the burn of his ass is uncomfortable at first, but Cas is patient and careful as he works the muscle until Dean is a sweaty, shivering mess beneath him.

“Need you in me,” Dean gasps, and Cas exhales, grabbing the base of his own dick. He slides the condom on and lines them up, pushing in gently, just the head at first, until Dean relaxes and he can ease all the way in. Cas shudders.

He cages Dean in with his limbs, catching Dean’s bottom lip with his teeth as he slowly rocks forward. Their movements are measured, unhurried, Cas taking the time to undo Dean and put him back together again. Once he knows Dean is comfortable, he picks up the pace, hands wrapping themselves around Dean’s hipbones, fingers grappling for purchase against Dean’s skin. Dean fists his own hands in to the sheets, moaning loudly. Cas whispers Dean’s name like a prayer against his skin; a litany of _Dean Dean Dean_ that feels more like a promise than a name.

Love’ can be spat like curse or whispered like a cure in moments like these - broken glass between teeth, the whisper of lips on lips, a blade’s edge against a throat, but Dean knows logically that he doesn’t love Cas – not like that; not quite yet, although he knows he could someday. And although it sounds soppy and corny and like something from all the family movies Dean doesn’t watch, they do make love. There’s no other word for it. He lets himself love Cas for just this beat in time, his heart thrumming for release against his breastbone, pneumatic utterances and half-sighs the soundtrack to their submission as they move together.

Cas refuses to let Dean touch himself; insists on wrapping his own hand around Dean’s cock and stroking him in time with his thrusts. A blush begins to dust Cas’s skin as he moves closer towards orgasm, skin turning crimson across his face and chest. Dean comes first, his second orgasm more intense than his first; his vision whites out as Cas’s name tumbles from his lips, come streaking their chests. He kisses Cas afterwards, and that’s what sends Cas tumbling after him.

 

It’s not until later when they’re lying under twisted sheets, the metallic tang of sweat and bitter salt scent of semen coalescing around their blended forms - all blurred skin and tangled limbs – that Dean finds the courage to say, “Why did you save me?” He mutters the question, glancing away from Cas’s too-blue eyes, and Cas frowns.

“Because you were being attacked? I couldn’t just leave you, I-“

“No, I-I mean in Japan,” he interjects. “What you did was… it was stupid, Cas, and blindingly heroic. I should have died.”

Cas hums. “You can’t save everyone, Dean.”

Seconds tick by, marked by the hands of the bedside clock, time stretching in to silence. “This isn’t about my guilt over that,” Dean says eventually. “It’s more than that.”

“It’s about everything,” Cas says quietly, “I understand.” He’s quiet again after that, as if he’s waiting, and Dean’s okay with that, he really is, because Cas often says more with his silences than he manages with words.

 “Yeah, but it wasn’t your stupid decision that got half your platoon and a bunch of innocent civilians killed.”

He’d been stupid. So, so stupid. They’d stumbled across a village Dean thought was abandoned, hadn’t scoped the place out well enough, blundered through when they should have skirted its edges, no regard for the people who once lived there. But Dean was exhausted and desperate to reach camp and thought he was doing his mates a favor.

The Japanese had ambushed them with a group of civilians in tow. They’d shot through open doors and windows at Dean and his men, hidden by the walls, and whilst they’d tried to shoot the enemy soldiers and only the soldiers, many of the civilians had either been hit or took their own lives. The death toll was high on Dean’s side too. The battle resulted in an exhausted victory.

Dean was shot before they’d even made it back to camp, in the end.

“I could have stopped you,” Cas says then, wrapping his arms around. “My orders would have overridden yours. But I didn’t. I followed you in because I thought it was a good decision.”

“It wasn’t your suggestion.”

“No, but it wasn’t your fault, either. We forgive you, Dean. I had to file the report, and it was okay. Everyone understood.”

Dean presses his face against Cas’s neck, smiling a little despite the ball of guilt in his chest. “The guys forgave me?”

“Of course. No one is beyond redemption, Dean.”

If others can forgive him, maybe, in time, Dean thinks he might be able to forgive himself.

 

The next morning, when Dean’s pulling on his clothes, he sees the piece of paper tucked in his jacket pocket. It’s dirty and the ink is slightly smudged now, but the words are still legible. He hands it to Cas.

“D’you happen know what poem this is from?” he asks. Cas frowns at it, his eyes narrowing in concentration as he pulls on his own undershirt.

“Yes. It’s by Robert Herrick, I believe. Um… ‘To the Virgins’. That’s it. I have a book of his poetry, if you’re interested.”

Dean’s mouth goes dry. “Uh, yeah, I’m very interested. Thanks.”

Cas glances at the bookshelf before pulling out a tomb. “This poem is about youth,” he says, handing the book over. “With particular emphasis on virginity. It’s rather beautiful.”

Dean reads.

 

To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time.

Gather ye rose-buds while ye may,

   Old Time is still a-flying;

And this same flower that smiles today

   Tomorrow will be dying.

 

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,

   The higher he’s a-getting,

The sooner will his race be run,

   And nearer he’s to setting.

 

That age is best which is the first,

   When youth and blood are warmer;

But being spent, the worse, and worst

   Times still succeed the former.

 

Then be not coy, but use your time,

   And while ye may, go marry;

For having lost but once your prime,

   You may forever tarry.

 

Realization dawns as the pieces finally align. The missing link, something Dean didn’t think about, of course, because he thought Daphne was _married_. What a 15-year-old girl could have in common with a 27-year-old woman?

Virginity.

“This is gonna sound like a really weird question, Cas,” Dean says, continuing to stare at the paper, “but did you and Daphne ever um… sleep together?”

A pause. “We slept in the same bed on occasion, if there were no other options.”

“No, I mean, did you ever have sex?”

“Oh.” Cas tilts his head. “No.”

“Has she ever had sex with another man?”

Cas looks even more confused. “Not that I’m aware of. She always said she was married to Jesus Christ. Something about the purity of the soul.”

“Okay,” Dean says, because he can’t really say anything else. He’s just found a lead, a significant lead, and now he needs to work out how virgins fit in to the bigger picture. “I think I just figured out why Daphne was killed.”

Dean gets the rest of it as soon as he pins the poem to the board in his living room - _Virgins_ scrawled across the bottom of the paper.

The killer's forcing him to chase clues.

Fuck. Maybe it isn't gang related - maybe it really is a serial killer who has a thing for virgins.

He dials KGPL and checks for messages, but there’s nothing there. How the hell is he gonna let the killer know he’s figured it out?

An idea hits him as he looks around the room and his eyes settle on today’s newspaper. He calls the Los Angeles Times and puts an ad in the Classifieds mentioning the title of the poem.

He waits.

Two days after the advertisement in the paper comes out, there’s an anonymous tipoff for Dean Winchester left at KGPL. It’s a verse from another poem – ‘The Sparrow’ by William Carlos Williams - as well as a time and a date for the next day. This clue doesn’t take Dean as long to figure out; The Sparrow is a nightclub down on Sunset Boulevard in West Hollywood, known for its popularity with Mickey Cohen, his crew, and various movie people.

“Don’t go, Dean,” Cas’s voice rumbles down the telephone. They’ve only seen each other once in the past two days because of work, and Dean feels like the question of their relationship is hanging heavily over both their heads. “It’s a trap.”

“I can’t do nothin’, though, Cas,” Dean replies, twisting his fingers through the phone’s wire, playing with the loops. “I was just gonna go and stake the place out, you know? Buy a beer, listen to-”

“No.”

“But it’s your – it’s Daphne’s killer! Don’t you want revenge?”

Cas hesitates. “Retribution is not mine to decide,” he says stiltedly.

“Whatever, Captain,” Dean mutters, and hangs up.

He knows he’s acting like a twelve-year-old kid, throwing tantrums and making unfair assumptions, but he’s too stressed to care. This job is about saving people, not sitting back on the sidelines and hoping for some sort of divine intervention - some sort of fucking miracle – to occur. People make their own futures. Decisions are the only fate they’ve got.

So Dean doesn’t contact Cas again. Instead he takes a trolley car down to Sunset Strip that night, looking spiffy in his best suit and hat. He can hear Frank Sinatra’s voice leaking out of the club once he arrives, and it drifts on the mild fall night air, syrupy and smooth, encouraging him to go inside.

Dean gets in straight away by flashing his badge.

The interior is decked out in Baroque stylings too overdone for Dean’s taste, but the music is good, at least, and he orders a beer and scans the crowd. There are a few Hollywoodites he recognizes from the silver screen seated at tables around the room, as well as a few glitteratis. Mickey Cohen’s absent and instead Lucifer is sitting with his crew by the back wall; Alistair, one of his key henchmen, to his left, and Lilith, his moll, to his right.

Dean’s had little to do with Lucifer, but he knows a few of the guys in Vice are in cahoots with him, profiting from illegal shipments of morphine. He uses Alistair to do most of his dirty work, and his brother, Michael, is top of the brass at LAPD. Lilith is a force to be reckoned with herself. Lucifer is a phony name, a play on the fact that his brother’s name is ‘Michael’, but no one dares speaks his real one. Rumor has it that he’s spent the last ten years in Russia, learning from the _vory v zakone_ in Eastern Europe.

He also thinks he recognizes another figure at the table, but… it can’t be. Long brown hair, a real honey.

Ruby.

It is. She’s been an informant for Central for a few years, has helped Dean on a few cases. Was even sweet on Sam before she realized that he was hitched. Dean’s not surprised, exactly, to see her here, but it makes him uncomfortable.

Dean finishes his drink quickly and orders another, making sure he grabs a table where he has a clear view of all the exits.

What he doesn’t expect, however, is for Cas to turn up.

He arrives a good half-hour after Dean, tugging that stupid coat further around his shoulders and glancing wearily in Lucifer’s direction as approaches Dean’s table.

“Thought I heard you say distinctly – and I quote – ‘No’,” Dean says, raising an eyebrow. Cas looks hunted. He briefly looks back over his shoulder at Lucifer again, almost as if it’s a subconscious action. Lucifer, who’s – whoa, okay, creepy as all get-out – just staring at them, grinning sardonically.

“Can we talk outside?”

“Uh, sure,” Dean says, and Cas appears so serious, so uncomfortable, that Dean can’t deny him. He drains his glass and stands up. “How’d you get in?”

Cas doesn’t respond, just walks quickly through the groups of patrons until he reaches an unmarked door. Dean shrugs on his peacoat and follows Cas out in what he assumes is an alleyway.

“Are you okay, Cas?” Dean says as soon as they close the door behind them. Cas peers up and down the concrete lane. It’s wide enough to fit a car, the next building a good eight feet away, more like a drive than an alley.

“I’m so sorry, Dean. I’ll make this up to you,” Cas whispers, stepping forward, and Dean is confused, because it looks like Cas is gonna kiss him. Instead he feels the bite of a needle in to the flesh of his neck, watches as two blue eyes waver in front of him, but as he tries to yell out something muffles his mouth and he tumbles in to the sky.

 

His first conscious breath tastes like overripe fruit, the air cloying and sour as it sticks in his throat.

There’s an incessant ringing building in his ears. The concrete beneath his face is pockmarked and dirty. When he forces his eyes to open, everything remains smudged and indistinct, like a freshly painted watercolour in hues of charcoal and burnt orange. The world bleeds together. There are voices that rise and fall like the tides, but he can’t for the life of him work out what they’re saying.

Japan, he thinks indistinctly, suddenly. The Japanese must have got him. This must be Changi - he’s in _Changi_ – and –

There’s movement at the edge of his vision. A figure steps in to his line of sight. It reaches out and touches him, gently - too gently for him to be in prison - sweeping across his brow. Maybe this is Heaven; maybe Heaven smells like stale air and death and this is an angel coming to collect his soul.

“Dean,” the figure murmurs. The voice is familiar, but he can’t place it. “He’s awake; just give him a few moments.”

The voices sound far away, like Dean’s underwater. At least he can understand them now.

“Good boy, Castiel,” a second voice says, higher than the first, less guttural. “Now we just need to decide what to do with him.”

There’s silence, after that. Dean knows he’s alone, now. He tries to move, but his wrists are bound. With a bit of effort he manages to shift in to a sitting position, legs out in front of him, arms aching with the strain of being tied. Slowly, his vision starts to clear.

He’s in a rectangular concrete room. It looks like some sort of warehouse with orange boxes stacked against the walls, bearing down on him, shadows in the light cast by only one globe. If he focuses hard enough, he can hear the rumble of a trolley car overhead. A whisper of music.

Huh. At least he knows he’s still in LA. Underground, but still LA.

Memories return, thick and fast; he remembers why he’s here in the first place. He swears loudly. What the fuck was Cas doing, kidnapping him? Who is he working for? Cas is the last person Dean thought would double cross him; the guy saved his life twice and goddamn well fucked him two nights ago.

The situation’s just getting more and more confusing.

Footsteps echo quietly through the corridor leading to the room, like the person’s trying to quiet, and Dean is immediately on alert. He shuffles back and lies down across the floor, ignoring the cold concrete as it presses against his back.

Pretending to be asleep, he levels his breathing and lowers his eyelids, staring out from under his lashes.

Cas enters the room, coat swirling around his knees, oversized and dirty. He glances around before moving towards Dean, kneeling beside him.

“I know you’re awake,” Cas says quietly. Dean opens his eyes. “It’ll be okay. Just give me time.”

Dean wants to say something, anything, but his throat seizes and all he manages is a sort of chocked half-wheeze. Cas rubs at the place where the ties are cutting in to Dean’s wrist.

“I’m going to do something now. Keep silent. Lucifer thinks I’m attacking you right now. That I have you gagged.”

 _Lucifer?_ Dean figured Mickey would be the brain behind this. Did Cas really betray his wife to a _gangster_?

He undoes the ties around Dean’s wrist before swiftly replacing them with a set of his own, obviously concerned that Dean might try something. Settling back on his heels, he whispers in Dean’s ear, “These should snap when enough pressure is applied.” He presses his mouth against Dean’s, then, lightly, more a drag of lip than a proper kiss. “When you hear gunshots, run. The only exit is the one over there, but no one should notice. Please trust me.”

Dean nods, once, voice still not cooperating. He trusts Cas.

He’s alone again.

He pulls his body up again, trying to get comfortable, moving until his back is pressed against a crate.

It’s not long before Dean hears a gunshot followed by a muffled thump and a scream. He pulls until the binds snap, quickly undoing the ropes around his ankles once his hands are free.

There are no obvious weapons close by, and he assumes the boxes are filled with drugs. He’s right; opiates line the walls in tightly packed bags. This is a Vice cop’s wet dream.

He hears more gunfire as he stumbles through the corridor, a little uneasy on his feet. There appears to be a body up ahead – his guard. The guy’s dead; blood pools under his chest. Dean mutters a quick apology before stealing the guy’s semi-automatic. He can smell more blood as he continues forward along the passage towards the noise.

There are about ten people in the room, Lucifer and Cas included, looking like they’re in the middle of a weird Mexican standoff. Dean wants to laugh because it looks like a scene from a b-grade Hollywood movie.

His eyes snap to Michael, who’s standing beside Cas and opposite Lucifer, his own gun raised.

“Fucking g-men,” Lucifer spits. Alastair flanks him, as per usual, and a bunch of other gues Dean Doesn’t recognise. “The Angels of Los Angeles against a group of ‘Demons’. Couldn’t get more poetic, could it, brother?”

“If I go in to the back room, will I find one of LAPD’s finest tied to a fucking dope crate, Lucifer? I know that’s a dirty shipment you have there. Why do you think the Alien Squad’d be so interested in you otherwise?”

Feds? Dean thought there was a gangster squad for cleaning up crime in LA. What do the feds want?

Cas sees him lurking in the shadows and frowns before looking away quickly.

Dean wonders if he could manage a clean shot on Lucifer.

“I tried to put the little bird in jail, far from harm’s way. Thought he was one of mine, to be honest. Clever little bird.” Lucifer is staring at Cas, now. He begins to sing, voice high and melodious, mouth twisted in up in to a smile. “A little Cock Sparrow sat on a tree, looking as happy, as happy as could be, ‘til a boy came by with his bow and arrow: says he, “I will shoot that little Cock Sparrow.””

Dean reacts on impulse as soon as Lucifer nudges Alastair.

Aiming his own gun, he fires at the group. His shot hits Alastair in the shoulder, disarming him, Alastair’s shot going wide. Lucifer sees Dean then, of course, and that’s when chaos breaks out.

Bullets spray out; everyone scrambles for cover behind the various objects that litter the room. Dean fires a few shots of his own. He tries to stumble over to Cas; doesn’t think he can leave without making sure that he’s is okay. But his foot gets caught on something, and he’s stumbling, falling to the ground. He watches Lucifer aim his gun, and the world slips in to slow motion as Lucifer pulls the trigger.

There’s another gunshot at the same time. Dean feels a body land on top of his, heavy and hard. He struggles under the weight. It’s too late, though; the bullet sinks in to Dean’s stomach. Pain shoots through his entire body.

He cries out in agony before the world dissolves around him for the second time that day.

 

Waking in a hospital bed appears to becoming a theme in Dean’s life. It’s he’s second time in as many years.

At least he’s waking at all, he supposes, and waking to a morphine high is always pleasant.

There’s movement in the corner of the room, and figure rises from a chair. A sleepy looking Cas approaches the bed, dark circles under his eyes, hair messier than it usually is.

“Dean,” is all he says, but it’s enough. He looks relieved.

“Hi, babe,” Dean replies teasingly. “Come here often?”

Cas barks out a laugh, but it sounds sad. “You’ve been in and out of it for the last few days. It’s good to see you lucid.”

Dean makes a face. “What happened?” he says, picking the glass of water off the table beside the bed.

“You got shot,” Cas says flatly. “I’m your doctor.”

Dean grumbles irritably, rolling his eyes. “You know what I mean.”

Cas huffs before turning around to lock the door. “What do you want to know?”

Dean finishes his water and pours himself another. He shrugs, mindful of his stomach. “Everything.”

Cas looks reluctant, but he settles on the edge of Dean’s bed anyway. He sighs and rubs his forehead. “I’m a fed. I’ve been here, undercover, for the last year.”

“And uh, Daphne?”

Cas eyes him warily. “Daphne had nothing to do with it. She got caught up accidentally.”

“Right,” Dean says. “That’s not really helpful.”

“Shouldn’t we be discussing this when you’re feeling better?”

“I’m feeling fine. Just hungry. So what you’re saying is that we lost contact because you’re a part of the alien squad?”

“No, Dean. I’ve been involved in trying to prevent a war from breaking out on the streets of LA,  and if we’d stayed in contact, you would have wound up as collateral.”

Dean takes a moment to process this; Cas fidgets uncomfortably. Then suddenly he’s off the bed and dragging the chair over to sit next to Dean, heat in his gaze that trickles through to his words, hands twisting in Dean’s hospital gown. “I did it, all of it, for you,” he says, grip tightening, words hissing their way through his teeth. “Do you know how hard it was for me to intentionally lose contact with you? If I hadn’t, you would have wound up dead. Look at Daphne. I couldn’t protect her and I couldn’t protect you.” He’s shaking, now, barely repressed emotion leaking to the surface. “After all we’d been through in Japan, to return to Washington to find that I was stationed in the same city as you was… awful.”

Dean reaches out, then, fingers circling Cas’s wrists, trying to keep him grounded. “It’s okay, Cas.”

“No, it’s not. Don’t you understand, Dean? I had to work with Lucifer. You could have been killed – Daphne was. And if I hadn’t had you on my case, I’d be in jail right now.” He closes his eyes and breathes. “We apprehended Lucifer and his gang. I didn’t mean for you to get involved, but I needed to drug you so Lucifer would trust me and we could reach his hideout. The clues he left were just some sick puzzle, including Betty Cowan's death. I’m sorry I had to use you like that. I was hoping you’d escape before things got heated, but as it turned out, you saved my life. Michael was even talking about promoting you.”

“So Michael isn’t secretly a fed?”

“No. Michael and Lucifer are my brothers.”

“Fuck.”

“Yes. That’s why this case was… important. We felt responsible to stop Lucifer.” Cas pulls his hands from Dean’s and leans back against the chair. “And you need food.”

Dean shakes his head. “You can’t leave me there, Cas. What’s gonna happen now?”

Cas smiles, and it’s one of his real smiles, all bright white teeth and pink lips. “Nothing. You’re going to go back to work, I’m going to finish up here."

 “You mean you’re going back to Washington?” Dean feels a rush of disappointment. He doesn’t want to know the answer. At least they can stay in contact now, he supposes.

But Cas’s smile morphs in to a cheeky grin. “No, I resigned. I have options, now; I can either continue to work at the hospital, or apply for the open position at LAPD.”

“Holy shit; Uriel was one of Lucifer’s bunch, wasn’t he?” Dean smiles as Cas nods. “We might end up fighting another war together, Captain.”

Cas stands and stretches, pushing the chair away from the bed, and tilts his head at Dean. "Your call, Lieutenant."

**Author's Note:**

> 2nd Battalion, 1st Marines was John Winchester's company in Vietnam. They did, in fact, fight in the Battle of Okinawa.  
> Dean's badge number is an adaption from the Impala's current numberplate.  
> The Sparrow is sort of based on Ciro's, which was a famous nightclub in the 1940s and 50s on Sunset Strip.  
> I read some fantastic books in preparation for this fic, including the Black Dahlia by James Ellroy and What It Is Like To Go To War by Karl Marlantes. You should check them out if you have time!  
> A picture of Dean's car can be seen [here](http://photos.aaca.org/files/6/0/3/3/4/1937_chevrolet_master_deluxe_4_door_sedan_-_black_-_fvr.jpg)  
> I'm thinking of writing a few 'deleted scenes', as I have a few odds and ends lying around. We'll see!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [As the Sparrow (Art)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1034053) by [dosymedia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dosymedia/pseuds/dosymedia)




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